Category Archives: prayer

This the text of a sermon delivered on the first day of Shavuot, 5778 –

Traditionally in Hebrew a synagogue has two names.On the one hand, we call the synagogue the Beit Keneset, the place of gathering, and on the other, we call it the Beit Midrash, the House of Study.If you come to Beth El with any frequency you know that we do quite a bit of both here.Obviously we pray here regularly.Today we are here in prayer celebrating the Shavuot festival, but of course we gather for prayer every Friday night and Saturday morning for Shabbat, and a dedicated group of congregants even comes together on a daily basis to pray in our weekday minyanim.And of course in the fall thousands of people come to pray during the High Holy Days.

But Beth El is also a place of study, a Beit Midrash.It is hard to imagine it right now, but when I first came to Beth El there was no adult education programming.None.Not a single class, not a single musical program, not a single movie.And slowly, over time, first under the leadership of Allan Lipsitz of blessed memory, and more recently under the guidance and vision of Dr. Eyal Bor, the adult education programming has blossomed, becoming one of Beth El’s most important initiatives. Every year thousands of people come through our doors to learn and study, and through that process, to grow Jewishly.

And it is that sense of the importance of study that makes Shavuot different from any of our other festivals.I would say that for all of our other holidays, when we come to synagogue, the emphasis is on the Beit Keneset, the synagogue as the place where we gather to pray.But on Shavuot it is different.On Shavuot, particularly the eve of Shavuot, we come to the synagogue thinking of it as a Beit Midrash, as a place where we gather together to study Torah.

There is actually an old tension in the tradition between the values of prayer and study.Both are understood as being important, both crucial to living a full and meaningful Jewish life.But by and large, when prayer and study conflict, the tradition prefers that we leave prayer aside and focus on study.No question in my mind the Talmudic sages understood study as a higher spiritual exercise than prayer, and they believed that through study one could come closer to God than one could through prayer.There is a Talmudic story of the sage Rava, who lived around the year 300 in the city of Pumbedita in Babylonia.He once found a student late for class because the student was saying his prayers slowly.We might expect a Rabbi to be pleased that one of his students was taking prayer so seriously, but Rava reprimanded the student, saying to him ‘מניחין חיי עילם ועוסקים בחיי שעה’ – you are forsaking eternal life to busy yourself with the here and now!In the rabbinic mind prayer is the ‘here and now,’ almostmundane.But study?That is the gateway to eternal life.The Sages believed that it was through study, not prayer, that a Jew could find true salvation and meaning.

But the importance of study is also understood as working on a national level, and that is what Shavuot is about.The moment that symbolizes that is this morning’s Torah reading and the 5th aliyah, when we stand together to listen to the words of the 10 commandments.In one sense we are re-enacting the moment when God spoke the words and the Israelites, standing at the foot of Mt. Sinai, heard God’s voice.But in an other sense we are symbolizing in that moment our continued dedication – as a people – to the Torah, to our sacred book.We are in effect saying ‘we will continue to study the book that You, God, have given us.’And it is because of that dedication to Torah, to the values of study and education and intellect, that we are called the People of the Book.

And I would argue that it is that dedication to study that has enabled the Jewish people to survive for thousands of years.The Talmud (Shabbat 30b) tells of a conversation between King David and God.It seems that David was worrying about the end of his life, and he wanted God to tell him when he would die.God tells David that information like that is something a human is not allowed to know.And David pushes God, saying ‘at least tell me on which day of the week I will die.’And God says, ‘you will die on a Shabbat.’

Now David was a smart guy, and he knows, according to tradition, that if you are engaged in the act of study, the Angel of Death is unable to take your soul away.So David begins to spend every Shabbat studying for 24 hours.When the appointed day of David’s death arrives, the Angel of Death has a problem.But he has an idea, the Angel of Death.He’ll distract David.And that is exactly what he does.According to the Talmud, the Angel of Death climbs a tree near David’s window, and shakes the tree.David is startled, and for just a moment he looks up from his book, and stops his study.And at that instant the Angel of Death is able to take his soul away, and David dies.

On the surface, that story might sound like an old wives tale.But read between the lines with me for a moment.In the course of the narrative David is transformed from a warrior king to a rabbi, spending his days engaged in the study of the tradition.The great palace that he lived in has been transformed into a Beit Midrash – a House of Study.And in that transformation, David has become a metaphor for a new way of Jewish life, and for a new means of Jewish survival.Jews would not live in palaces, they would not have armies, they would not have kings, the Temple would be destroyed, and there would be no more sacrifices.

But what Jews would always have was the Torah, given to Moses, transmitted to the people, and studied ever since.The Torah can go anywhere.It can go to Babylonia and the Academy of Rava, it can go to Europe, it can be carried here to the United States.Anywhere there is a Torah there is a Beit Midrash, a House of Study.And anywhere there is a House of Study, there is Jewish life.In the Talmudic story as long as David continued to study he continued to live.We might say the same about the Jewish people.From one generation to the next we have dedicated ourselves to the study of Torah, and by doing so we have ensured the survival of Jewish tradition, and the Jewish people.Shavuot is the holiday when we rededicate ourselves to that process of study and the role it plays in the continuity of our people.May we continue to do so again and again, for many years, through many generations.

A famous phrase, attributed to Abraham Joshua Heschel, one of the most influential rabbinic teachers and mentors at the Jewish Theological Seminary in the 60s. He reportedly used the phrase when asked what it felt like to march with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. in the now famous Selma protest walk which took place on March 21, 1965. Asked about the experience by a student in class, Heschel simply said ‘it felt like I was praying with my feet.’

I am not sure the thousands of students who participated in today’s school walk out, organized to raise awareness about the problem of gun violence, would have used exactly the same phrase. But I suspect that many of those students felt like they were, in some way, engaged in holy work. From Maryland to Connecticut to Indiana to Florida, from the west coast to the east, all across our great land, students rose from their seats at 10 o’clock this morning, walked out of their schools, and observed 17 minutes of silence, one for each of the recent Parkland shooting victims. It was a powerful national moment, the like of which I do not remember in my adult life.

These young students remind me of the great prophets of old, the Jeremiahs and Isaiahs who set up their pulpits on the street corners of ancient Israel, and with eyes blazing and a profound sense of righteous indignation spoke truth to power. With the NRA trying to muzzle them, with their local politicians treating them with a condescending sweetness, these students have been fearless, and full of faith – faith that they can make a difference, that the world can change for the better, and that ultimately wisdom and reason can prevail over anger and the old back room pay and wink system that creates fertile ground for the NRA’s lies.

The adults around them are weighed down with the cynicism and hopelessness that comes with age, the sense expressed in Ecclesiastes that there ‘is nothing new under the sun,’ that nothing will ever change. We’ve witnessed the Columbines and Sandy Hooks, we’ve been angry and we’ve raised our voices, briefly. But I wonder if all along we felt nothing was going to happen, that there was no real chance for real change. You can’t win when you step out on the field expecting to lose.

Which is why we need these young people to step forward, to speak out, and to be the leaders we evidently cannot be on this issue. Will they succeed, do they have the fortitude for the long haul, the marathon, that this surely will be? We have no idea, and won’t know the answer for some time. But they took a first bold step today, and they think they can win. And that may be all the difference. May they teach their parents well.

Many years ago, as a young rabbinical student, I had a job teaching in the Introduction to Judaism Program at the 92nd Street Y in New York. The class consisted mostly of couples – one person Jewish, one person not Jewish, with the non Jewish person considering conversion. One evening, at the end of class, a student – a young woman – asked me if I though it was possible to convert to Judaism without believing in God.

After pondering the question for a moment or two I said ‘Yes, I do believe it is possible to convert to Judaism without believing in God.’ Then I went on to talk with the class about Judaism’s emphasis on action – on what we do on a day to day, sometimes moment to moment basis – and its DE-emphasis on what we believe. I said to the students ‘Our tradition will often tell us what we should be doing, but it will rarely tell us what we should be thinking. And that is why,’ I concluded, ‘I think someone could convert without believing in God.’

The next evening the phone rang in our apartment. It was my supervisor for the Introduction to Judaism course. He said ‘I heard you had an interesting discussion in class last night.’ He talked the previous night’s conversation through with me, wanting to hear my perspective on what was said. Then he said two things to me. First, he said ‘you may be right, but you also may want to carefully consider when and how you say things like that in public, especially in a class full of people who are considering conversion.’ And the second thing he said was ‘you also may want to study the debate between Maimonides (the RambaM) and Nachmanides (the RambaN!) about the first of the 10 commandments.’

This debate is well known in rabbinic circles, going back to the early Middle Ages when Maimonides lived in the 12th century (1135 – 1204) and Nachmanides in the 13th (1194 – 1270). And their debate, which played out on the pages of various commentaries over the years, revolved around the first of the 10 commandments, which is? “I am the Lord your God who brought you up out of the land of Egypt, out of the House of Bondage.” (Exodus 20:2) Of course the problem with this verse if you read it closely is that it does not contain a commandment. And that is what Nahmanides pointed out. The verse does not say, for example, ‘believe in the Lord your God.’ The other 9 all contain specific verbs that command the listener to do something, or to not do something. Honor your father and mother! Remember the Sabbath! Don’t worship idols! Don’t steal, or commit adultery, or covet! Those are commandments, no question about it. But “I am the Lord your God” does not fit into that category. No question about that either.

Nevertheless, Maimonides, in a book he wrote called Sefer HaMitzvot – the Book of Commandments – lists belief in God as commandment number one, and the verse he cites as proof is the first verse of the 10 commandments we read this morning – ‘I am the Lord your God.’ Nachmanides argued that he was wrong, and that a true commandment must include a rule about behavior, about something you should or should not do, and that in some way a commandment should be measurable. That is to say, you should be able to know if you have fulfilled it or not. Most of Judaism works that way. You know specifically what prayers you are supposed to recited at a given service, and you either complete them or you don’t. You know you are supposed to eat matzah at the seder, and you even know how much you are supposed to eat, and then you either fulfill the commandment or you don’t. You know you are not supposed to eat certain things, and you either abide by that commandment, or you violate it. But you know whether you’ve done it or not.

Belief is something that is entirely different. People believe in different ways, they believe different things about God, their belief about God changes over time, it waxes and wanes, sometimes it is stronger, sometimes it is weaker. Sometimes it might not be there at all, and then it might come back. On top of that belief is such a personal thing – I am not sure I can even describe my belief to you. How can you regulate something like that? How can you determine whether it is being fulfilled or not, how can you measure it? And as the debate about the first commandment that began with Maimonides and Nachmanides continued to play out through the centuries, some Jewish philosophers began to argue that matters of belief should not be commanded at all. That – like I said to my group of students more than twenty years ago – being Jewish is not something that should be defined by what you think, particularly by what you believe about God, or even if you believe in God or not! Instead it should be defined by what you do.

You may know the old story about Schwartz and Greenberg, a story I’ve told before. Schwartz and Greenberg are old friends and they come to shul together every morning, and they sit together in the morning minyan. They both put on tallit and tefillin, they both know the service, follow the Hebrew, and can participate. But there is one problem. Schwartz does not believe in God. And every morning, Schwartz’s wife gives him a hard time. ‘Why do you go to shul all the time? Greenberg I can understand, Greenberg is a believer, Greenberg has faith, but you, you have no faith, so why do you go?’ And finally one day Schwartz says ‘You know, Greenberg goes to shul to talk to God, and I go to shul to talk to Greenberg.’

The truth, of course, is that we all probably have a little Schwartz in us, and we all probably have a little Greenberg as well. There may be days when we sit here with doubt in our hearts, when our faith is at a low point or maybe it is not there at all. On those days are we any less Jewish? And there may be other days when for one reason or another, probably for reasons we don’t even understand, our belief is stronger, and we are more sure that God exists and that God’s presence is a part of our lives. On those days are we more Jewish?

I can only speak for myself, and I can tell you I’ve been in shul many times feeling like Greenberg, but I’ve also been here many times feeling like – well, Schwartz. What I am grateful for either way, whether my faith that day is strong or weak, is waxing or waning, is that I am part of a tradition and community that honors that struggle, and that gives me a place to live my Jewish life with meaning every single day.

The young man stood with his grandmother as she recited the words of the Mourner’s Kaddish. It was her husband’s yartzeit, the anniversary of the date of his death. Tradition had called her back to the synagogue, had asked her to sit through a service in which God’s name was praised, to bend and bow, to speak the old and often arcane words of prayer. And now, after her husband’s name was read, tradition called on her to rise and say the ancient words which marked this day and her loss.

He had been gone many years. The grandson, now in his twenties, barely remembered his grandfather. He knew his name, of course. Had heard stories, oft told by family members. “Do you remember the time when…? Ah, that was Joe, that was Joe.” He knew what kind of work his grandfather had done, how much he meant to his family, even what the substance of his personality was. But he could not remember his voice, or the feel of his rough hands, or the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes when he smiled and laughed. Still the grandson stood, feeling a sense of familial responsibility in his heart, and also a deep respect and love for his grandmother. Not to be underestimated, the latter. So the young man also said the words – Yitgadal, v’yitkadash..

And what odd words they are! The prayer for grief and loss and heart rending sadness is simply a litany of praise for God. Death is never mentioned. Grief is never acknowledged. Sadness and loss and anger are so strangely ignored in these ‘kaddish-words.’ But of course the prayer is now more than the words. The words and letters have flown off the pages of ancient prayer books, and then somehow returned to their very place, letters in the same order, words on their proper lines, and yet the meaning, the feeling of them, has changed. They are not what they are, but rather what they have come to be through long years of grief.

There is something intensely sacred about that moment. Not in any God related way, not in anything otherworldly or supernatural. But intensely humanly sacred. A quiet chapel and a late hour. A small group of Jews gathering from some sense of responsibility, creating by their presence the minyan. Darkness softly falling outside. A flickering candle. Twinkling stars glimpsed through a window in the distant sky. And a young man standing with his grandmother, intoning ancient words, linked by history, tradition, family, and faith. And love.

One week ago tomorrow, on Shabbat afternoon, I took our dog for a long walk around the neighborhood with our niece Lily. Lily is the daughter of my brother and sister in law and just starting second grade, and as we walked we talked about various things – school, a strange bug we saw, the dog, cracks in the sidewalk – I guess pretty typical conversation with a seven year old. That morning she had come to Shabbat services, so I figured I would ask her what she thought about shul. ‘How did you like services?’ I asked. ‘It was pretty boring,’ she said. ‘What was boring about it?’ I asked. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you just sit around and say all those prayers.’

And I don’t know if Lily’s comments reflect your experience of shul, but I can tell you they brought back memories of my own childhood, and sitting in services next to my father, particularly on the High Holy Days. I had a general sense of what page the service ended on, and I would keep my finger in that place of the prayer book, counting the number of pages we had left to go. It was always exciting when the rabbi skipped a bunch of pages – for example, we’d go from page 60 to page 70! That was great! We were that much closer to the aleinu!

But if the prayers were challenging for me, what I did enjoy about shul were the various scriptural readings of the holidays. I liked hearing about Abraham and Sarah, I enjoyed the dramatic narrative of the High Priest and the YK day ritual that we read tomorrow morning. And I particularly liked the story of the prophet Jonah, that we will read at Minha tomorrow afternoon.

I am sure you all remember the story of Jonah. He is asked by God to deliver a message to the city of Nineveh and its residents, to tell them they have sinned but that if they repent they will be spared. As a child I didn’t know much about sin and repentance and all of that business, but I did love the part of the story where Jonah is swallowed up by a ? big fish! In my mind I tried to imagine how Jonah could have survived for three days and nights in the fish’s belly. I thought about how big the fish must have been to swallow a man whole. I wondered at how dark it was, Jonah all by himself, deep under the water, with no light and no source of comfort or hope.

And my favorite part of the story came at that moment – that low and dark moment in Jonah’s life – when the text tells us he prayed to God from the belly of the fish. קראתי מצרה לי אל ה׳ ויענני – In my trouble I called out to God, and God answered me. מבטן שאול שועתי שמעת קולי – from the darkest place I called, and You heard my voice. I don’t know how my niece Lily would feel about that prayer, but for me it has always had a distinctive power, and it has grown even more compelling as I’ve aged, and certainly as I’ve worked in the rabbinate over the last two decades.

There is a simple reason for that – in my eyes, Jonah’s prayer reflects the human experience, that at the difficult and dark moments of our lives, the moments of doubt and pain, the moments of loss, the moments of fear, the moments when we feel hopeless – at those moments we turn to God, we call out for help, and we seek God’s presence. But over the last few years I’ve become worried that we do that less and less today. I am concerned that our faith in prayer is waning, and that it has become more and more difficult for us to find in the experience of prayer meaning and value.

Many years ago Alvin Book, a long time member of Beth El, came to see me. When he walked into my office, in his hands, he held this little abridged Bible. These were standard issue, given to the Jewish soldiers in the Army during the Second World War. Alvin told me that he had landed on the Normandy beaches, on June 7, 1944, the day after D Day. The beaches were still not secure, and the troops were being heavily shelled. He ran to the closest fox hole he could find, a shallow ditch in the sand. And he huddled there, and he was terrified, paralyzed with no idea of what to do or how to move forward. As the shells were exploding he was saying ‘God please help me.’ And he told me he reached to his heart, because it was beating so heavily, and his hand hit the pocket of his uniform, and in that pocket was this Bible. And for some reason, just really looking for something to help him, he took this Bible out of his pocket, and with shaking hands opened it. And this is the passage he opened it to –

Out of the depths I call to You, O Lord. Listen to my cry, let Your ears be attentive to my plea for mercy…

I look to the Lord, I look to God, I await God’s word. I wait for God like watchmen wait for the dawn… (Psalm 130)

Alvin told me the moment he read that passage he felt a sense of calm, he felt that God was there with him, he felt he was going to be OK.

Notice that nothing external changed in his situation. The shells didn’t stop falling. He was still lying in a fox hole. He was still in grave mortal danger. None of that changed. God did not make a miracle, create a protective shield, or move him out of harm’s way. His circumstances were exactly the same as before he reached for that Bible. But there was a transformation that occurred at that moment. An internal transformation. Something changed inside of Alvin, something that helped him feel a sense of courage and hope and strength that he didn’t have before.

And you know what? Rabbis also struggle with prayer. And Alvin’s story has helped me to understand prayer, how prayer works, and how it can be meaningful in my life, and maybe it can do the same for you. I think my niece Lily was on to something last Shabbat afternoon – prayer can be enormously difficult for us. As Lily said, it can be boring at times, after all we sit here for hours on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, reciting prayer after prayer, and if you are one of those who mark the end of the service with your finger in the Mahzor, you know we still have a long ways to go. (In fact tonight, 40 more pages to be exact!) And there are additional challenges – Hebrew not the least of them! How many of us can read Hebrew well, let alone understand what we are reading? And even if we go to the English side of the page we struggle with the meaning of many of the prayers, some of them close to 2000 years old, and it can be difficult to understand how they can connect to us and our lives.

But I think the biggest challenge to prayer today is that we have lost faith in its power. We don’t believe that prayer can be a transformational experience, that it can make a difference in how we live, or who we are. One of the primary reasons for that is that we’ve come to think of prayer as a process of asking God for something. And once we ask, our request is either granted or not. In the simplest of terms, we ask God for a new bike. If we get the bike, we believe our prayer has been answered. If we don’t, we feel that either God said ‘no,’ or that God never heard our prayer in the first place. And if that is the way we think of prayer then we very well may sit here for hours on RH and YK and wonder whether it is even worthwhile opening our Mahzorim.

But what if we think about prayer differently? What if prayer is supposed to be what happened to Alvin Book on that beach 73 years ago? That the power of prayer is NOT about making external changes in the world. God does not miraculously produce the bike! Instead the power of prayer is about making internal changes, in our own hearts and minds. And then maybe, when we are transformed internally, we will go out into the world and make it a better place because of our presence in it.

Ten years ago tomorrow, on Yom Kippur afternoon, 2007, the Jewish year 5768, Rabbi Mark Loeb of blessed memory gave his last High Holy Day sermon to our congregation. Many of you will remember that in those days we recited Yizkor in the afternoon, and Rabbi Loeb spoke just before that Yizkor service. The Berman Rubin sanctuary was packed, fuller than I have ever seen it, before or since – my guess would be close to 2000 people were in the room. Rabbi Loeb was in a reflective mood that Yom Kippur, sensing the power of that moment in his life magnified by the most powerful day of the Jewish year, and he delivered his remarks with a characteristic brilliance, but with an uncharacteristic depth of emotion.

At the very end of that sermon he told the following story in the name of Rabbi Israel Salantar: “When I was a young man, I wanted to change the world. I went out, and worked, and tried, but I found it was very difficult to change the world. Then I thought I might change my nation, but I found I couldn’t change my nation. When I realized that, I thought to change my community, but even that was too difficult for me. Now that I am an older man, I’ve realized the only thing I can change is myself. And if I can do that, then one day maybe I will be able to change the world.”

Had you asked Rabbi Loeb if he thought that the prayers we recite during these holy days are heard by God, I think he would have said “I don’t really know.” Were you to ask me the same question, I would say the same thing. I don’t honestly know if my prayers today will somehow reach God’s presence, in some distant heavenly throne room, or even in any way, shape, or form. But I do believe with all of my heart and soul that the prayers of my mouth and the meditations of my heart can make a real difference in how I understand my role in this world, in how I live my life, and in how I relate to the people that I love. And I also know that if those things happen through my prayers during these holy days, then my prayers will have truly been answered. So may all our prayers on this Yom Kippur arrive at their proper destination, transforming our lives for the good, enabling us all to enter this new year with faith, courage, and hope.

It stands for sine qua non, a latin phrase that means ‘an essential condition, a thing that is absolutely necessary.’ What is the bottom line ingredient that is required to make something what it is? Scotch, for example, might be blended or single malt, it might be aged in casks made of sherry or oak, it might be smokey or peaty. But it must be made from malted barley. That is its sine qua non. If it isn’t made from malted barley, it isn’t scotch whisky.

I’ve often wondered about the sine qua non of the synagogue. Does it exist, and if so what would it be? The study and learning? The Hebrew school? The adult education programs? Social action? All important. But if I had to choose one fundamental piece, the one component without which a synagogue would no longer be a synagogue, I would choose the prayer service – the minyan.

After all, the study and learning can happen at a local university with a strong adult education program. You can participate in social action with a local charity. Even Hebrew school these days can happen in various and sundry locations – just look at the number of families choosing to hire a private tutor to prepare their child for bar or bat mitzvah. But the one thing a synagogue does that is unique – its sine quo non – is the minyan. When ten or more Jews come together to pray. When the Torah is taken out of the ark and publicly proclaimed. When the ancient liturgy of our tradition is recited. The minyan is the synagogue’s raison d’être, its true reason for existing. Without prayer, the synagogue becomes just another place where Jews gather to be with other Jews.

The problem is this: the minyan is fading away. We don’t often acknowledge this, we don’t like to look it right in the eye, but traditional prayer services in the liberal Jewish community are slowly but surely disappearing right before our eyes. In part because people are busy, and Saturday morning is prime errand time, or golf time. In part because people don’t have the skills they need to participate (the Hebrew is a serious problem). In part because people don’t find meaning in it, they don’t believe the act of prayer can be transformative in their lives and characters. What to do?

It is first important to recognize that there is no magic pill here. It isn’t simply a matter of finding the right charismatic rabbi or cantor. It isn’t just arriving at the proper recipe for the service itself, just a tweak here or there, or even a radical rearrangement, and all will be well. It is a much more complicated equation, multi-layered, involving education, programming, community, and leadership. Minimally – as a beginning – we need to create opportunities for people in our community to deepen their knowledge of and connection to our prayer services, our minyanim. Some of this is familiarity. Some of this is study and discussion. Some of it is practice! And some of it is having a safe space where all of these things can happen.

It is this space we are hoping to create with a new ‘learnin’ minyan’ that we will be holding at Beth El. Meeting the first Shabbat morning of the month, from 9:45 to 10:30, this minyan will be a combination of prayer and study, of delving into the themes and motifs that drive our liturgy while at the same time (hopefully) increasing the number of tools that are available to access those themes and to participate in those prayers. I have believed for a long time that there is deep meaning in prayer, and that the very exercise of praying can be truly transformative in our lives. Join us on this journey and we’ll see if we can convince you of the same. We will meet in the Rabbi Jacob Agus Library, immediately following the Torah study class. Beginning January 7th.

You are more familiar with the traditional version of the quote, ‘when in Rome, do as the Romans.’ That is to say, when you are somewhere with a different culture you should by and large conform to that culture. At the very least be sensitive to the fact that a culture that might seem strange to you can have deep meaning and familiarity to others. Be respectful, don’t look down on it, and sometimes just go with it. It is, minimally, the polite thing to do.

One of the challenging things about shul life today is that many Jews feel like foreigners in their own sanctuaries. They are so unfamiliar with the service, so uncomfortable with the rituals, and so detached from a sense of meaning and connection to the tradition, that the experience of shul is alien to them, foreign, something they watch from afar but do not engage in.

Of course the synagogue has some responsibility for this. This is at least in part our failure. We have not successfully communicated the knowledge and skills that people need to participate in our services. I know this, I feel bad about it, I sympathize, and yes, we have our work cut out for us. We will keep trying!

But we need partners. We need people who want to learn, who feel that their lack of connection is important, is something they would like to change. I’ve noticed recently how fewer and fewer people even bother to pick up a siddur during services. They come and sit, they watch the proceedings, they seem to pay some attention when sermons are delivered. But I just don’t understand why you would sit in a two hour service and not want to pick up the prayer book. We call the pages. We do a fair amount in English. There are responsive readings you can participate in, even if you can’t read Hebrew.

Think for a moment of the message you give to your children if you sit there with them and don’t open the prayer book. You don’t have to say anything to them – they’ll know. Mom thinks this is boring! This must not be important, dad isn’t following what is going on. And then the obvious question – why should I?

And I know many people can’t read the Hebrew. And I also know that many people are not comfortable with prayer (both of those issues, by the way, we can work on!). But out of common courtesy, please pick up the prayer book. Follow the service. You don’t have to believe it! You don’t even have to believe in God! Besides, you might be surprised, and something in those pages might be interesting, moving, meaningful, dare I say it, even spiritual. But just by picking up the book you are showing you are part of the community. You are saying ‘even if I don’t understand this, I respect it.’ And you are showing your children that this is something to participate in, something to be taken seriously, something that might one day have meaning for them, even if it doesn’t for you.